Since the beginning of January, we have been posting the work of finalists in the 2012 Four Centuries of Mormon Stories contest. It’s made for some great reading and given us a chance to see what writers in our broad LDS community have been doing, and can do, with Mormon themes. We have now posted all of these finalists’ work online, so it’s appropriate that we also record here who won the contest back in 2012.

And the winners are…

First Place: “Avek, Who Is Distributed,” by Steven Peck

Second Place: “When the Bishop Started Killing Dogs,” by Steven Peck

Third Place: “Waiting,” by Katherine Cowley and “Something Practical,” by Melody Burris (a tie)

Going forward, we will post the remainder of the content from the Everyday Mormon Writer website. Initially, we won’t associate posted content with a particular contest, but we may go back and tag posts that way at a later date. Much of the content will be from past LitBlitz contests, but some will be stories of interest that were originally published on the Everyday Mormon Writer website.

Hope you have enjoyed reading these great stories! Keep coming back to read more, and if you’re a writer, write!

What stories did you like? Comment below.

Without fail, something always went wrong during visiting teaching. As her sons Tyren and Luke ran into the room, Jayla glanced at the holographic control in her eyepiece, hoping her old computer could handle the projection layers. Luke stopped running, squinting at the layered space. He reached through the projected space and picked up a large plastic airbus, making it visible on all layers. Luke threw it straight at Jayla’s visiting teacher, Luciana. The toy went through her head and bounced harmlessly onto the floor.

“Sorry Luciana. Luke has an obsession with throwing toys through visitors.”

Luciana smiled. “My kids do that all the time. Last week my uncle actually came over and Tiago thought he was a projection. Luckily he only threw a rubber ball.”

Jayla chuckled, and then clutched her rounded belly, biting her lip as she felt the strength of the contraction. Soft music began playing in her earpiece, fading as her skin relaxed and the cramp beneath her belly lessened. The contractions always came in sets, four or five an hour, enough to make her wonder when the baby would come, but never enough to go to the Birthing Hospital.

Luciana looked concerned. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come over and help? Three weeks until your due date—the baby could come anytime.”

“I’m fine, really. What were you saying about earthquakes?”

“Well, isn’t it interesting that just a year ago the prophet told all the Saints in the South Pacific that it was their turn to move to Zion, and to do so quickly. And now there’s all these earthquakes and tsunamis?”

At her doctor’s orders, Jayla had turned off alerts on the millions of casualties; the news gave her panic attacks, which were bad for the baby. “Did everyone move?” she asked, guessing the answer.

“Most of them.” Luciana paused. “I keep wondering when our area will be called to go. But the Second Coming could happen before then. The nice thing is whether or not we’re living in Zion, the Lord will protect us. ”

Jayla shivered, wishing her husband was home to wrap his arms around her and whisper that everything would be fine. But he was thousands of miles away, and they weren’t even allowed to make holographic calls. Perhaps the military would make an exception when she had the baby.

Jayla felt worried and worn. She groped for the words to signal the end of the visit. “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, and I have some things I need to take care of…” Jayla looked to the left and blinked twice, trying to bring back the controls. She glanced around the room and spotted Tyren and Luke in the corner. They must have overridden the system using their computer. “Give the living room back to Mommy. Right now please.”

Instead they grinned and clapped their hands, turning off every hologram except for Luciana. Jayla closed her eyes, not wanting to look at Luciana, who could now see what her living room really looked like. Limp, faded couches, ripped and sewn back together. Toys and cereal strewn across the floor. A pile of dirty laundry in the corner.

“I had to sell the last of the cleaning bots,” Jayla whispered. “My husband’s salary hasn’t arrived for months, and I had to buy food.”

Luciana stood up, no judgment on her face. “Well, it sounds like you do need my help. I’ll be over in a couple hours, whether you want me or not.”

After the projection faded, Jayla turned to her sons, uncertain of how to discipline them. “Tyren, you need to be a good example to your younger brother. And Luke…” Luke ran from the room. “No simulations for the rest of the day!” Jayla heard a loud crash from the kitchen—something broken that she would not be able to fix.

“Tyren, go keep your brother out of trouble. But give Mommy a hug first.”

Tyren dutifully approached her, said “I love you Mom,” and gave her a brief hug. Then he pulled her hair and ran from the room. Jayla knew she should follow her sons, but she stayed on the couch, waiting.

Why couldn’t the Savior just come, so she could live peacefully in Zion with her husband and children?

Jayla reactivated the screen on her eyepiece, which was really just an old-fashioned, electronic contact lens. “Bring up the LDS forums on Signs. Summarize relevant details.”

“Still no confirmed rainbows this year in the Western hemisphere.” The computer summarized riots, assassinations, battles, and natural disasters, showing maps and images from the events. There had been signs for hundreds of years, and now there were so many of them. Yet still the time had not come.

An alert from the pregnancy monitor appeared on her eyescreen. Her stress level and heart rate were increasing, as always happened in the minutes before a panic attack. Worse, the baby’s heart rate was dropping. It wasn’t enough just to take care of her physical body; she had to control her emotions or she’d harm her future child. Jayla logged out of the forum and began to calm herself, but she couldn’t stop worrying and waiting. After a few minutes, her next contraction started, accompanied by soft sea sounds in her earpiece.

“How long since the last contraction?” she asked.

“16 minutes,” said the computer’s voice in her ear.

“How far am I dilated?”

“Three centimeters.”

Still three centimeters. There were so many things Jayla could and should do before the baby came, but she didn’t want to start any projects she might not finish. And so she waited. Waited for the next contraction. Waited to hear from her husband. Waited for the Second Coming. Waited, because she was too stressed to play with her sons, too tired to think about dinner, too distracted to prepare her Sunday School lesson. Waited, because surely her visiting teacher could fix more than just the mess.

Jayla heard a soft buzzing in her ear. “Yes?” she asked her computer.

“Scripture reading.” If she glanced right, it would postpone the task. Jayla glanced left.

“What’s that scripture in the D&C… the day and the hour?”

The words came up on her eyepiece screen. “For the time is at hand; the day or the hour no man knoweth; but it surely shall come.”

Jayla pulled out her earpiece and eyepiece, and folded her arms in prayer. Then she stood up, careful not to jolt her belly. She would not just wait; she would do something. The Lord had always been good to her before, and He would surely help her now. When the time came, she wanted Him to find her on her feet.

About the Author: Katherine Cowley has a Masters of English from Brigham Young University. In addition to writing, she enjoys making short documentary films. Katherine has worked as a radio producer and a writing teacher. She currently lives with her husband and two daughters in Phoenix, Arizona.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

Elder Windle stared at the visor on his desk with dread. He stroked the edges with this finger and made a couple of motions to put it on, but resisted. Had he really exhausted all options? He uplinked to his wife. Avoidance.

“Hi Sweetie.” He thought carefully. She did not like it when he turned on StraythoughtAssist^®. When he filtered his internal vocalizations before they were broadcast, it made her feel like he was hiding things. Kids these days could think out conversations to each other without letting stray thoughts intrude or be accidentally exposed, things better left hidden were hidden. Oh to be young again. But he, at only age 132, had to rely on gizmos to help him communicate.

“Dear, you’re d’straking again, I’m hearing your whole ‘Kids these days/gizmos’ lecture.”

“Sorry. I just called to let you know I’d be home for dinner.”

“You are always home for dinner.”

“I know . . . she always sees through these . . . I wish I didn’t have to tell Avek the news . . . Sometimes I don’t come home for dinner when the brethren have late meetings . . . But I’ve tried . . . Really tried . . . and this is one of those times I will be home for dinner.”

“Ok Dear, turn on your Stray-Assist, you’re bleeding thoughts all over the place.”

“OK.”

“I take it you have some tasks that are not pleasant?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

“Ok, take care of them. Avoiding them will not help. Good luck, Dear.”

“Ok. Thanks Sweetie.” He broke the link.

The visor was still waiting for him. Why did he have to be the one to make the call? Why not those who actually made the decisions? No. Don’t go there. He humbled himself. He was the Seventy over Artificial Life Relations. This was his duty. Still. He longed for the days when he just worked with humans.

He grabbed the visor and put it on, logged on, and waited.

“Elder Windle! Good news I hope?”

“I’m so sorry Avek. So Sorry. We have tried and tried to think of a way. We have wrestled with this in long prayer and we are just not sure what to do. We are stumped and heartbroken.”

He was sitting in a cafe. The man across the table took a sip of his hot chocolate. When Elder Windle first met him, this Intelligence would have been sipping animated coffee. It did not matter to the Church how AIs portrayed themselves eating or drinking, as “drinking” was really doing nothing more than moving electrons around in an animation. Even so, Elder Windle was impressed that Avek had captured the spirit of the kinds of sacrifices required of members of the Church by rendering himself drinking something within the bounds of the Word of Wisdom.

But the tears trickling down the avatar’s cheeks were not making this easy.

“I really am so sorry.”

“You started baptizing humanform androids in ’23 I believe.”

“Yes. Yes. In the Revelation on Consciousness it was recognized that humanoid AI’s were harboring genuine spirit children of God. And they were in God’s image. They had a body. So they could be baptized.”

He hated saying that last part. But it was one of the key problems.

“And as a distributed AI we cannot harbor a spirit?”

“You must understand. The difficulty is that your intelligence is distributed across three planets in thousands of computational nodes . . .”

“And yet I am one thing. A unique individual. Someone that thinks singly. Someone who can feel. Who longs for things. Who has read every scripture, every talk, every document ever produced by the Church and who wills with all his heart to join you. I have felt things I’ve never imagined possible in my explorations.”

“Do you pray?”

“I pray every 30 picoseconds. Each of which if put into your language would compromise more text than everything humans have ever written.”

“Well, it’s not the volume that matters.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I sensed you were discounting my prayers and I was overcompensating. So it’s just the not having a body that can be baptized? That’s the crux of the problem?”

“Yes that seems to be the most difficult sticking point. Baptism is fundamental. We’ve had to make compromises before. For the Gas Jellyfish of Jove IV, we were able to pump enough O2 into the highly hydrogenated atmosphere of that planet to create a thick water vapor that was deemed such that one could at least sort of be submerged in it. But you are all over the place.”

“My body is extensive. It is how I feel the universe. Its pulses. Its movements. It is that hardware from which I am formed that makes up my physical body. It is through its tendrils that I found the Church.”

“I am so sorry.”

“I am as one dead, then.” There was a pause, then, “Cannot you baptize me by proxy? Like those truly dead?”

Elder Windle stared at him in shock. Why had they not thought of that? By proxy!

* * *

The gender problems of AIs had been worked out over fifty years ago and the church had settled on allowing them to define their own for the purposes of the saving ordinances. Since Avek’s avatar was male and he chose to identify as male, the proxy would be of that gender. Indeed, Elder Windle’s own son would be the proxy.

Elder Windle entered the waters of Baptism beaming. The brethren had jumped at the idea of baptizing Avek by proxy. Especially Elder Janxvon, the first android apostle and former star ship captain, whose stories of adventures were always a favorite at General Conference. The twelve spent almost a year in prayer and fasting trying to discern the will of the Lord in this, and earlier this week, at hearing Avek’s suggestion, made the decision to allow proxies if the person could not legitimately be baptized. Elder Janxvon was ecstatic,. He was a strong advocate of missionary work among the various AIs and this solution to the problem of baptizing distributed AIs would open the work to billions of potential converts. He had offered to Baptize Avek, but Avek insisted it be Elder Windle.

Elder Windle was handed a visor, which he donned enthusiastically. There was Avek’s avatar dressed in white. Virtually, they were standing in waist deep water, just off the shore in the calm waters of a gorgeous lagoon. Fern-like plants on the shore whispered and waved in the softly blowing wind. Two moons blazed full in the sky, and a nebula of gold and purpled flowered gorgeously above them. Elder Windle grasped his arm and explained unnecessarily how to hold his nose as he went under the waves. In the real world he was holding his son identically in the West Temple Level Sixteen Chapel baptismal font.

Raising his hand to the square in both reality and in the virtual world he began the words, “Having been commissioned . . . ” But rather than just the usual phrases he added the protocol the church had decided upon, “. . . for and in behalf of Avek, who is distributed.”

About the Author: Steven L. Peck is a writer and an evolutionary ecologist at BYU. For science, he studies tsetse flies in Africa and the philosophy of computer simulation models. He blogs at BCC. His writing can be explored at stevenlpeck.weebly.com. He lives in Pleasant Grove, Utah.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

Davvid Gates took a long walk once a day. This was allowable under the Alternate Forms of Exercise Provision section 23 (conducive to continued mental health) so long as he kept to public thoroughfares and his thought patterns showed no bursts of activity in forbidden zones.

Davvid never consciously planned out his walks. All he knew was that at some point during the day his lymph nodes would begin to throb and would continue to throb until he had made a complete circuit of whatever route he was supposed to travel that particular day. As he walked — usually along well-traveled corridors teeming with citizens — he would occasionally reach out and brush the wall with his fingers or the back of his hand. Sometimes he would feel compelled to turn his head towards someone hurrying by and exhale quickly through his nose.

Normally, citizens were not allowed to wander without a registered destination nor dim their implant’s wayfinding overlay, but his Wellness Advisor had explained that Davvid had been granted this exemption because the State was always willing to be flexible for the sake of well being. He also assured Davvid that he was not the only one who suffered from a mild agoraphobia with traces of OCD and that sometimes citizens responded better to physical activity as a palliative rather than distractive entertainment and/or anti-anxiety drugs.

These walks troubled Davvid. He didn’t know why he engaged in them. He only knew that he felt compelled to do so, and, although he had never and would never admit this to his Advisor, he felt guided on these walks — guided by his lymph nodes, which would pulse uncomfortably the whole time, but would ebb and flow in intensity as he reached intersections, steering him down various corridors and walkways.

What’s more: when Davvid returned from his walks, patches of his skin, especially on his hands, would crackle raw and dry, and he always felt the need to take a long shower followed by a brief nap. His Advisor never asked him to correct this routine, and in turn Davvid never mentioned the trouble with his lymph nodes. He figured that if something was seriously wrong with them, that would come out in a weekly health scan. But other than a cold every so often (and the mild agoraphobia), he was a healthy, normal, productive citizen albeit one who, at 62, was reaching middle age.

One day, Davvid woke up in the middle of his sleeping period. The nodes in his neck and thighs were swollen and throbbing more painfully than he had experienced before. His heart began to race. He tried to calm himself so he wouldn’t trigger a medical alert.

He slowed his breathing, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He did not want to be prodded by a doctor. Not if he could help it. His arms and chest began to itch all over, a more intense version of what he had often experienced after his walks.

Then he gasped as his heart began to pound again and pain rippled across him. The coppery taste of blood spread across his mouth. He gasped and touched his tongue. His finger came away coated only with saliva. He moaned and curled up in his bed. He felt like he was burning up inside, but, oddly, his skin felt cool, and beneath the pain a pleasant warmth spread inside him, radiating out from his chest. An alert chimed in his implant. It directed him to report to a nearby medical facility. Davvid contemplated ignoring it, but knew that he could not. If he delayed too long, Security would soon arrive to help him move along.

A new alert chimed — this one changing the facility he was required to report to. It was farther away and not one that he had ever been to before. If he had to go, at least he could see something new.

Breathing heavily, he lurched out of bed and stumbled in to the corridor. His implant brought up the State’s wayfinding overlay — ghostly blue arrows pointing the direction he was supposed to go. He obeyed them. As he walked, his lymph nodes also throbbed along, seemingly in sync with the arrows.

It was a ten minute walk. Davvid arrived sheened with sweat. The door to the facility auto-opened. He paused, his thoughts a swirl. He tried madly to calm them. But he did not want to go in. He really did not want to go in. He panicked and began to back away from the open door, the arrows flashed madly in his mind, the State directing him to his required destination. His lymph nodes also flared painfully. He gasped and stepped forward. The pain lessened. He entered the door. They settled down to a mild throbbing. This, apparently, was where he was supposed to be.

He followed the arrows down a narrow corridor to an exam room. He entered and sat on the edge of the exam table. The direction came to undress. He stripped off his jumpsuit. His skin itched all over. He scratched at his chest and felt a strange crust there. He looked down. There was a small, neat scab on his left breast just above the nipple. He scratched at it, not wanting the doctor to see it. It peeled easily off, leaving a pale pink patch of new skin behind.

The implant chimed. A doctor entered the room. He was a short, white-haired man with stocky shoulders and wrinkles around his green eyes.

“Well, Citizen Gates,” he said. “You appear to have a fever and an elevated heart rate. Let’s get you checked out.” The doctor scanned him carefully with a handheld, placing it against his forehead and neck and chest. He palpated the swollen nodes on Davvid’s neck and thighs. He made a slight clucking noise with his tongue and left the room. He returned with a larger scanner, which he held in front of Davvid’s chest for several seconds. An alert chimed in Davvid’s head. His medical file was updated to show that he had had a mild heart attack and would be placed on leave for two days. His rations would be changed, and he would now be prohibited from strenuous forms of work.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the change in your status, citizen,” the doctor said, gesturing his left hand in the air. He wore a thin silver band around the second finger. It gleamed in the cold light of the exam room. “How do you feel?”

“Tired and hot,” Davvid said. “I would very much like to just go home, shower and rest.”

“Of course, of course,” said the doctor. “But first let me give you something that will help you rest.”

“Is that allowed?”

The doctor smiled. “I’m given a certain latitude in treatment, citizen. You are free to leave, but if you’ll stay here for just a moment, I will come back with an injection that will help.”

Davvid nodded. “That would be nice,” he said.

“Wonderful. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you lie down?”

Davvid stretched out on the exam table. His muscles ached all over. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired.

The exam door opened and slid shut again. The doctor walked over to the table a hypodermic in his hand. “Roll on your side so you are facing me, please,” he said. David complied, the paper crackling as he turned. The doctor leaned over him, gave his bare arm a gentle slap and then slid the needle in. He removed the ring from his finger and touched it to several places on Davvid’s scalp. Davvid felt the buzzing ever-present awareness of the implant fade out.

The doctor quickly kneeled by the side of the table and placed a hand on Davvid’s head. “You are hereby released from service Bishop Davvid Gates. Well done, my brother. The Spirit shall be with you always, but will no longer have access to certain aspects of your physiology. Keep the faith. And get some rest. You will remember none of this consciously, but this knowledge is already sinking in to the spirit that animates your body. Thank you, brother. We love you. The Lord loves you.”

The doctor took his hand from Davvid’s head, clasped his shoulder briefly and then left the room.

Bishop Davvid Gates (recently released) filled with warmth. The blocks in his mind dropped, and for just one brief moment, his mind was filled with light and faith, and he knew — he knew — who he was and how his furtive, subtle service the past six years had blessed the lives of many. He understood now that Zion was fled. Fled inward. Burrowed deep within the body and the brain, deep beyond the reaches of the state. The Holy Ghost acted lymphatically. The Church was born anew each day in thin layers of epithelia, administered pheremotically, the epithelium self-destructing and sloughing off once it has absorbed the messages of faith and comfort.

Davvid saw faces he didn’t know, felt presences he had only communicated with chemically. He felt an expansive, effulgent love for all of the members of his hidden flock, all those who had picked up the chemical traces he had covertly spread on his meandering walks. A gospel preached in pheromones; a ward whose members hid their devotion from each other — and themselves.

He understood now: the scab on his chest, a faint echo of ordinances lost; the taste of blood in his mouth, a sacrament. He understood that this life was not the end. That as stunted as his existence had been — it was still part of the plan. And just for this moment he was fully himself, fully a living soul, a child of his Father and a disciple of the Son, and the tears leaked on to the exam table as it all faded from his memory, as he felt parts of himself shutting down, and the Spirit receded, folding deep back within his mortal shell.

Citizen Gates walked back to his room directed only by the ghostly blue arrows. He walked slowly and stopped from time-to-time as if he was seeking something. He didn’t know what — only that he needed to touch something. At a turn in the corridor, his nostrils flared slightly, and he felt compelled to brush the back of his hand gently against a section of wall. His skin flushed ever so slightly with a comforting warmth, a warmth that he didn’t understand but would be looking for in the future.

About the Author: William Morris is a writer, editor and critic. He is the founder of the Mormon arts and culture blog A Motley Vision and co-editor of the anthology Monsters & Mormons . His short fiction has appeared in Irreantum and Dialogue. For liner notes to “The ReActivator” and “Release,” visit williamhenrymorris.com.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

Dear Dads,

I’ve decided to leave the Church. Well, sort of. I believe in God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost and the Book of Mormon and temples and all that, so I’m not rejecting the core beliefs or becoming an atheist or agnostic or Protestant or anything like that. In fact, my faith and devotion are very strong. That’s part of the problem. The thing is that while I’ve been back on Earth, I’ve made friends with people from the O-LDS Church and been to their meetings and listened to their missionaries and I’ve found my spiritual home.

What troubles me is that I now know that the LGBT-LDS Church is not true. It has most of the same teachings as the Original Church, but there is a big difference in some of the commandments—well, one of the commandments. I think you know which one.

I never said it plainly before, but I’ve always been uncomfortable with the boy-boy, girl-girl thing—and with people dressing up like they’re in the wrong body or getting their body changed to match their “true self.” I know we talked about it a little bit from time to time—and you even had me talk with the Bishop about my resistance to dating other guys, even though most of the youth were gay or lesbian or bisexual. In the end, I did go out with other guys a few times and even did some kissing, but it always felt wrong to me, so I eventually just refused any kind of romantic relationship with people of my gender. Of course, there was never any romance with the lesbian girls, although one or two admitted they thought they might actually be hetero. I hate to say it, but the fact is that in a church community set up for gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transsexuals, there’s a lot of pressure to be one or another of the four—and not to be heterosexual. After all, the whole idea of breaking away from the Original Church was to have an alternative lifestyle religion (and the community to go with it). I see that changing a bit, softening, and that’s nice, but, like I said, my problem isn’t so much that heterosexuality is frowned upon as that other forms of sexuality are accepted and encouraged.

I know this is painful for you to hear and goes against some of what you taught me, especially about tolerance. I hate that this is happening, but I can’t deny what I feel. I know a lot of people feel a lot of things, but this is what I feel and what I have to live by. These are the dictates of my conscience, whatever other people’s consciences dictate, and part of what Jesus will judge me by.

This doesn’t mean I love you less. It just means our religions won’t be completely the same. And whatever my beliefs about the lifestyle you have chosen (or which has chosen you, as you often told me when I was little), you’re still my dads and I still love and respect you. There may be a problem about the grandkids when I get married, though. The O-Mos are really circling the wagons these days and there’s a lot of talk about raising the bar to save the rising generation. It’s quite possible that my future wife, whoever she turns out to be, will have serious qualms about exposing her offspring to alternative lifestyles. I’ll do my best to find a soul-mate with an open mind on other people’s sexuality, but I’ve got to work with what there is and the trend right now is a bit ominous in that regard. However, even at the risk of turning to salt, I’ll be home for Christmas, as planned, and I won’t stop coming to see you no matter what. Whoever I marry will have to agree to that at least. I’m not going to abandon my family just because my religion is against their sexual orientation—and Mars costs an arm and a leg to get to.

I’m also not going to preach to you about giving up your lifestyle. I know how much it means to you. You guys really love each other and wouldn’t be happy if you weren’t married to each other. It’ll just have to be live and let live. And don’t worry, I won’t pretend to my kids that I don’t have gay parents. They’ll know about you and what great dads you are. I wish I had had a live-in mom to tell them about, but I had a womb mom (when she was around and had the time) and plenty of aunts, I guess, and they filled in okay when I needed feminine parenting. You guys are queers, not sissies, and you don’t have that womanly touch.

My new friends are blown away by some of what I tell them about how things are done in the Colony. Home sharing always raises an eyebrow, but genetic scrambling nearly pops a vein. It’s not like they never heard of the technology; they just never thought same-sex chromosomes could be mixed. To them, scrambling was always a cure for heterosexual infertility. Of course, the punch line is that homosexual couples are incurably infertile but for scrambling. Then they want to know why the chromosomes aren’t screened for the Gene, so that people like me don’t happen—straight biological children of queer parents. If they’ll listen, I try to explain about the Spectrum of Orientation, but not many of them really get it and fewer even try to believe it, so most of the time, I just tell people that screening wouldn’t be cricket, though it would save some heartache.

Mom says hello. She’s not that keen on my decision either, but she says it’s my body and my life and as long as I don’t try to reform the rest of the family, it’s my business and she won’t hold it too much against me. Did I ever tell you guys about our nicknames for each other? A couple of years before Mom and Auntie Sheila left the Colony, I read an obscure Asimov story called “The Gods Themselves” where these aliens in a parallel universe reproduced in threes, with one as the facilitator. Mind you, their method of reproduction was complete union: the three individuals (left, right and mid) temporarily merged to conceive a new “soft” before permanently merging to form a new balanced individual called a “hard.” After I read the story, that became Mom’s and my private joke. I don’t think I ever told you. My nickname for Mom is “Mid.” You guys are “Left” and “Right.” Me, I’m just “Baby Mixo.”

As you requested, I asked Mom what she’d heard about the potential split and she said it sounded like it was going to happen. A lot of people are upset about it, but there’s a really strong conservative element that sees bisexuality as an insurmountable problem as long as polygamy is forbidden, and a really vocal bisexual element that thinks it sucks to be forced to choose one partner. The old teaching about no boy spirits in girls’ bodies and vice versa has made a big comeback, too, so the transsexuals may end up leaving as well. On the bright side, the name and acronym for your church will be easier to remember, just plain old Q-LDS, but Mom says there’s a lot of tears and hard feelings right now. I hope the unhappiness doesn’t spread to the Colony, but I suppose it eventually will.

It’s kind of weird that this is an issue in the late twenty-first century and I kind of wish that the different LDS churches were just different rooms of the same house instead of separate houses, but things are what they are and a choice has to be made. Sometimes a gay man has to leave the straight church and a straight man has to leave the gay church, especially when his heart tells him the gay church is wrong. I really hate saying that to you, but it’s important that you understand the nature of my thinking. This is really core to who I am.

I’ve tried to keep it light, but this has been a really emotional email to write. Family is core to all the Churches and the idea that not all the Churches are right is devastating, no matter what your beliefs about the nitty-gritty of orientation. All we can do is go where we think the Spirit leads us and hope the Lord will sort things out in the Great By and By.

Meanwhile, I remain

Your loving son and eternal friend,

Gary

About the Author: Mark Penny (aka Mars Denar) teaches English in Taiwan. When his students aren’t looking, he writes poetry and fiction—often right under their noses. His pet themes include teaching English to aliens, crash-landing on desert planets, and dealing with parasitic mixed phase matter consciousnesses.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

The first potluck of the Oaxaca International Branch was going to be a disaster. Hermana Gaona was in charge of the music, which meant she would be having her son play from his computer, which meant nothing but Dominican music all night. Hermana Rodriguez had tried to suggest gently to Hermana Gaona that she should ask around about members of the branch and who had music collections and maybe ask some of the white people if they could bring some songs. She had couched it in terms of making Hermana Gaona’s job a lot easier but had hoped that her real message, “Don’t let your son play Dominican music all night,” had gotten through. It apparently hadn’t.

As far as the potluck foods, Hermana Rodriguez was hoping that those would be a little easier to arrange, but just this morning she had overheard some of the white ladies complaining about food availability and was panicking that they would show up with a begrudging offering of tortillas and tomatoes and then sit around and pick at their plates like martyrs all night because nobody could bring anything they recognized and liked to eat. It didn’t help that wheat flour hadn’t been available for months and that hardly any families in the branch owned ovens.

“The white cheese they have here doesn’t even melt right,” one of the sisters had said morosely to her friend as they sat shucking corn in the corner of the zócalo that the Mormon ladies had claimed. Hermana Rodriguez grew up in Houston – wondered if the white ladies remembered that when they commiserated in English in earshot of her all the time – and understood a little bit why they were feeling so out of their element. Most of them had been here for at least a couple years, but import foods were a little harder to get these days with all the trouble in Central America and times had been getting tighter. She reminded herself that it was her job as the president of the Relief Society to love and care for all her sisters, but sometimes she just wanted to sit them down and tell them the way she’d tell her kids that food is food and we’re grateful for it.

With all of this on her mind, she was on her way to talk to the branch president and wondered how she could help him see the gravity of the situation. The best would probably be to walk up and say dramatically, “The potluck is going to be a total disaster.” She knocked briefly and, without waiting for a reply, opened his office door.

“¡Hermana Rodriguez! ¿Cómo está?” President Buckley greeted her with his too-formal language that belied his lighthearted personality.

“Muy bien, muy bien,” she answered, forgetting her introductory statement was supposed to be dire. “And stop calling me usted, you’re not a missionary and we’ve known each other for like five years.”

“You will always be an honorable doña in my mind, dear Hermana,” he laughed. “Plus, every member is a missionary.”

“Yeah, they really like to hear that all the time too. Maybe you should bring it up again in church, Presidente.”

“Maybe I will,” he smiled. “How can I help you Hermana? How’s the preparation for the potluck going?”

“Oh yeah, that’s why I came. It’s going to be terrible.”

“How terrible is it going to be? Did we run out of tripas?”

“We never run out of tripas. All we got here are dead cows. Used to be a Gucci store down on the corner, now it’s all full of dead cows.”

“To be fair, the Gucci store was full of dead cows before, they were just all sewn up into purses. Anyway, I bet it will be delicious by the time you’re done with it all.”

“I’m worried about getting everybody to enjoy it, though,” she said as she sat down across from President Buckley. “I can’t even get the ladies to talk to each other, you know? And it’s not because of language barriers – you know all the Hispanas here are ones who lived in the States before. Mostly born there. But now all a sudden they no hablan inglés anymore because they don’t want everyone to think they’re used-to-be-rich refugees.”

“With the political climate we’re in right now, I hardly think we need to imagine why.”

“Yeah, well politics aren’t helping either.”

President Buckley smiled and sighed at the same time, and paused a little too long before he fixed Hermana Rodriguez with his light brown eyes and started to speak in a quieter, steady voice. “How often do you get to see any international news, Hermana?”

“You know, every couple weeks when someone finds something and sends it around. I don’t even like the normal news, though. Skip through all those or turn the volume off.”

“Well, there’s new reports coming out just this morning that look pretty legitimate and I think our branch members are going to be particularly hard hit. It’s only a matter of time until Mexican media starts reporting it too. While we’re all still protected under refugee status, of course, it looks like the US government has finally ceded control of the capitol.”

“Dios mío,” Hermana Rodriguez sighed. “Oh, sorry. You know.”

“It’s OK, I think a lot of us are going to be talking to Him these next few days. Anyway, while I know a lot of us have had a pretty realistic sentiment of what was going on for quite a while now, I think it’s going to be really hard on a lot of the members of the branch and I want to help them through this and any sort of panic they might be thrown into. There are quite a few of our members who really believed that their home country was unassailable – that the government they’d grown up with was as solid and invulnerable as the Church they’d grown up with. And it’s a hard leap of faith to make when that turns out not to be the case.”

“That’s the thing, President, a lot of my worries for the sisters come out of the fact that they’re not necessarily having the easiest time assimilating or even trusting each other. I’m afraid that especially the Norteamericanas, sorry I don’t want to offend anyone or your wife or anything, but I think a lot of them still feel like this was all a race war and that in a way they’re living in the homeland of the enemy.”

“I have no doubt that some of them feel that way.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well,” he began, and his years were really starting to show on his brow, far too young, really, she thought, “I think we start out with potlucks. But I think we really have to communicate and understand what our community here is and what our role to each other needs to be. I think we learn the hard way why we needed to be home and visiting teaching the way they were always telling us to. I think we learn really quick how we’re supposed to mourn with those who mourn.”

Hermana Rodriguez pinched her lip and tried to hold back the tears at the corners of her eyes. “How do we do that, President?”

“You and I need to be prayerful enough to teach each other the answer to that very question. But I believe that you have the strength, even if I feel like I don’t,” he said, and grabbed her hand warmly.

She nodded and squeezed his fingers in return.

“And maybe just for this one party,” he said, smiling bitterly, “we can go easy on the Latin music.”

About the Author: Anneke Garcia graduated from Montana State University in French and Graphic Design. She served a mission in Japan and is currently finishing her Ph.D. in Educational Psychology and Second Language Acquisition at BYU. She was married this year and she and her husband currently live in Nanjing, China.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

So here’s the deal: For the first time in my life, I was in a presidency. After several years of post-marriage, yeoman work in the nursery, I had been called as first counselor to a very gung-ho Elders’ Quorum president who worked as an assistant DA in Elk Grove. It was kind of fun. I liked teaching (every so often) and planning activities and even created this killer spreadsheet to organize home teaching. But there was this one other thing: Ben, the EQ president, was a big believer in reactivation through personal, unannounced visits.

So it was that we found ourselves knocking on doors in the hot Sacramento sun. I was having flashbacks to my mission. It turns out that a few more years of maturity had not cured me of the waves of awkwardness and dread that came as we approached every address.

I was totally cool with every silent door we hit. Although, of course, Ben wasn’t content to simply ring the door bell. If no one answered, and so far no one had, Ben moved on to loud knocking, and then, finally, to peeking in a window. The dude wasn’t willing to cross names off the list either if it seemed like there was any possibility that the address wasn’t a dud. These were lost souls to be reclaimed. He wanted sure knowledge.

I was smart enough to not let myself get irritated. I deployed my mission defense mechanism: stay cool and don’t escalate the tension and the other guy ends up doing most of the work. No harm, no foul, and maybe you’ll have some fun along the way.

In between doors, we cruised the streets of West Sacramento in Ben’s beat-up, old-school Jetta (complete with intermittent air conditioning), and I regaled him with stories from my past. He seemed to enjoy the conversation, but as the evening wore on, I could tell he wasn’t content to let our efforts be a wash. With every unanswered door, his energy spiraled up another level. He was winding himself pretty freakin’ tight and not reacting much as I launched into yet another humorous mission-related story–this one involving a dog, a Frisbee, and a drunk guy. So I dialed things down a bit. Offered some words of encouragement.

Then, without warning, a vague wisp of faith broke through the heat and sweat and frustration, and I caught a bit of his vision. Started to actually care about reaching somebody. Started praying silently for some contact. And not just so Ben would relax, either. There was some hope involved. And the aforementioned faith.

Look. I know how this sounds. I’m at heart and in practice actually rather orthodox. It’s just this one thing: I have a hard time going after the lost sheep. In my experience, there’s a reason they’ve left the fold. And they usually don’t want to be chased.

Finally someone answered. The door had been mine, but the sound of an actual human voice startled me into silence. Ben, of course, was quick to come to the rescue. Before long, we found ourselves talking to a young, hip Latino named Jorge in his air-conditioned town house.

In the beginning, the conversation was easy. Like Ben, Jorge worked for the government (as a graphic designer for some obscure state agency) and like me, he had graduated from UC Davis. In fact, Jorge shared that he had been baptized as a teenager down in SoCal, but had gone inactive shortly after starting college. We let that fact rest for a bit as we discovered that all three of us were passionate about technology, design, gaming, and indie rock. I dominated the conversation, a torrent of words flowing from my mouth. Once I get in the door and past the awkwardness, I’m golden. And I figured it this way: What this kid needed is to understand that there are active, believing Mormons who are just as cool, just as up on stuff as he is.

But then Ben began to steer the conversation back around to the gospel. “Well, Jorge, it’s great talking to you,” he said. “It seems like life is going pretty well for you right now. But do you ever feel like something is missing?”

Jorge thought for awhile. “Sometimes I do,” he said. “I do still pray sometimes, and I’ve thought about reading the Bible again.”

Something inside me rebelled at the directness of the approach. I figured Jorge knew why were there, and I was reluctant to push into dangerous territory. The dude had answered the door. We had had a good conversation. Let’s leave it at the getting to know each other stage. There was plenty of time to coax things further. Start out with some basic social networking invites: Facebook or MySpace; maybe LinkedIn; Last.fm, for sure. Then an invite to an EQ activity. Get him to chill with a few more of the quorum members. Then maybe pass him off to the Singles Ward and get him to a dance or Young Adult activity.

But Ben–The ReActivator–was going straight for the direct approach.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he said. “I think your instincts are right on. And we’re here to invite you to take things a step further. I know that it can be difficult to come back to church after you’ve been gone for a while, but I think you should come this Sunday. Just see how it feels to be there again. In fact, I could even pick you up. I live pretty close to here.”

Well, crap. I had to admire Ben’s audacity. I could only nod and smile and try to look solemn. But I knew that there was no way my face could look as bright and holy as Ben’s. My faith had scarcely been glimmering going into this; his had been burning brightly all evening.

I anticipated Jorge’s retreat, watched for him to close off parts of himself. But I read him totally wrong.

“You know,” he said. “I’m not sure why I stopped going. I just got so busy, you know? I’m still pretty busy, but you guys seem cool, and I have thought about going back to church. Get back on track, you know? I may get married and have kids some day. It’d be good to already be solid in the faith. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, you know? My dad was always pretending to be holy, and then he’d turn around and cheat on my mom or go out and get high and come back angry and break stuff. I don’t want to be like that.”

“You won’t be,” said Ben. “Even if you don’t come back to church, you won’t be. But I promise you that if you return to church, if you get back on track, you will be blessed with all your righteous desires. Of course, we will help you. We will help you prepare to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and then go to the temple. That’s what we’re here for.”

Jorge’s eyes lit up at the word “temple.” Something seemed to click there, but part of me felt a little sick. So many times on my mission I had seen the inactive who answers the door and has one moment of fire, acts like he’s going to get it all together, makes it to church once, and is never heard from again. It had happened to me twice with people I had baptized earlier in my mission.

“Yeah, I saw that they are building one up in Rancho Cordova,” he said. “It would be neat to be able go there and go inside. Have you been to the one in L.A.?” We both shook our heads. “It’s really cool. I did baptisms there once.”

I could feel the presence of the Spirit and knew that the other two were feeling it also. The warmth enveloped me–a gentle wash of warmth, a strange and welcome contrast to the blast furnace we had been out in earlier. But my initial reluctance was still wriggling around inside me. What was wrong with me? I admired Ben’s boldness. I really did. But perhaps I had bought too much into California laissez faire. The libertarian lite that was such a strong part of my school and work milieu. Thing is, it was a comfortable zone to be in. We all let our individual beliefs and practices stay inside the family and find common ground in pop culture and politics. It’s what you do when you have co-workers who are hardcore into Jewish mysticism or juice cleanses or tats. Or Mormonism.

So I sat on Jorge’s Ikea couch, and we were edified and rejoiced together. And I felt the Spirit about as strong as I ever do and yet held part of myself back. I just couldn’t quite let it be what it was. The echoes of all the loud knocks on all those silent doors. That squirmy sense of not wanting to bother people, of wanting to let people be, remained.

Ben and Jorge continued to talk for a couple of minutes, but I think we all realized that the visit was about over. The exact arrangements for next Sunday were made. Like all good third wheels, I offered the closing prayer.

The night air was still warm as we walked to the car. Ben was exultant, radiant. I shared his joy. And mourned my inability to share it fully.

About the Author: William Morris is a writer, editor and critic. He is the founder of the Mormon arts and culture blog A Motley Vision and co-editor of the anthology Monsters & Mormons . His short fiction has appeared in Irreantum and Dialogue. For liner notes to “The ReActivator” and “Release”, visit williamhenrymorris.com.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

Announcements…

On Saturday May 2^nd the Cub Scouts will be having a fund raiser in the primary room. For just $2 a piece, the Cubs will paint a unique design on any glass casserole dish or piece of crockery. I’m sure we all can see the value of this. I doubt there are many of us who haven’t left a dish or two after a ward function. I was just in the kitchen the other day and the stack is getting pretty high again. So, please check the kitchen for your dishes and then support our pack this Saturday from 11 to 1.

Thank you,

Sister Smith and Pack 147.

The next ward party…

Sister Jones walked along the table admiring all the new patterns that adorned the 9×13 pans. There was a colorful striped dish with the scant remains of a red Jell-O salad. There was a dish with polka dots that was empty except for a little cheese in the corner. There was even one with delicate looking flowers painted in a lacy pattern that held half of a green bean casserole. Truly, it was amazing to think that the Cub Scout pack was gifted with such wonderful artists.

She noticed a pan that seemed to have no painting on it. It was nearly full after the entire ward had gone through the line. She couldn’t help herself—she had to see who it belonged to. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she lifted the pan to see if a name was on the bottom. There was no name but under all the food there did seem to be something. As she sat the pan back down, a smiling Sister Walker approached.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Sister Jones said a little embarrassed. “I was just wondering who this pan belonged to.”

“It’s mine. I must say it doesn’t seem to be very popular. I guess tuna casserole is a bit overdone.”

Sister Jones forced a smile, “Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious. Tell me what is that painted on the bottom of your dish? I couldn’t quite see it. I was just admiring the handy work of our Cubs; so talented aren’t they?”

Sister Walker smiled even bigger. “You have no idea. They’ve made dinner time so much more enjoyable.”

“Oh, how so?”

“Well, it’s silly really. The day they were doing the painting I waited in line for some time because the sisters in front of me insisted on standing over the boys and giving them detailed instructions. The poor Cubs looked so bored that I took pity on them. When I gave them my dish, I just told them to use their imagination. I went off to the mother’s lounge to nurse Britney and when I came back it was ready. It was the best thing I ever did for my family dinners.”

Sister Jones lifted the dish again trying to get another look at the bottom while she listened.

“The first night I baked my tuna casserole the kids moaned, as usual. I have such picky eaters, but as everyone was served they could see that there was some kind of picture underneath. It was the first time ever that they all asked for seconds just so they could see it.”

“But what is it a picture of?”

“A severed head.”

Sister Jones recoiled and the pan thudded against the table. “That’s revolting.”

“True enough, but it seems to do the trick. I was so delighted I took a stack of my dinner plates to the last Cub meeting so that they could work their magic. I’m hoping my kids keep gobbling down those seconds. Our Cubs are real problem solvers.”

Sister Walker placed her toddler on her hip and wondered further down the table. After she was gone, Sister Jones took a big portion of tuna casserole from the middle of the dish.

About the Author: Melody Burris is located in western Iowa. She manages a complex household of distracted adults, moody adolescents, and hyperactive children. She likes to escape into the realities she creates in her stories. Aside from writing, her hobbies include Korean dramas, exercising, avoiding laundry, reading, and spending time with family.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

It’s funny what makes a man go crazy but one thing is sure no one expects it to be the Ward Bishop. It was Sunday morning and I noticed the police cars down the street at the Mullers’. Liz and I ran over to see what was going on. In our town when you see a police car at a neighbor’s yard you zip over because you know who it is that lives there. Plus we are all in the same Ward. When we got there it was plain to see what had happened. On their front lawn was their dog dead and with an arrow stuck in its chest. The officer was pulling it out and we could all see that it had a target tip and not a hunting tip and I think we were all a little surprised. It popped into our heads that this must have been teenagers because who else would have used a target tip when you want to take something down? The Muller kids were all crying and Sister Muller was crying too but she was evil faced and angry and was yelling Who would have done this?

Well if truth be told any of us could of done it because that dog barked all night every night. It was the Bishop that actually done it. But we didn’t know that and up he walked. Sorrowful and full of concern. He put his arm around Sister Muller and then squatted down on his haunches and talked to the kids. The police were asking if anyone had heard anything like squealing tires or seen kids out and about late but no one heard or saw nothing. Then Sister Keeling came over and said it’s about time someone silenced that damn dog. The officer looked at her lowly with narrow eyes but then realized if she was the one that done it she wouldn’t be so vocal and that it was just old lady talk. He just steered her back to the sidewalk because she was upsetting those that just lost the dog.

Animal Control came. The same ones that scoop up the raccoons and deer that meet up with traffic. They picked up the dog and placed it tenderly in the back of their covered 4×4. I don’t think they really cared but they made a good show of it for the kids and said they would make sure it got a proper burial but we all knew it was heading for the dump.

We shook our heads and chatted and wondered who would have done such a thing. The officer asked who had bows but of course we all had bows or at least a good number of us had one for the kids to shoot birds and squirrels with. And he acknowledged that an animal death would not be the kind of situation that would allow much manpower put to it. The Bishop came up to Liz who was the Relief Society President and asked that she see that someone brought them some meals for the next couple of days. It was an upsetting thing for someone to murder your dog and a hot meal might be mighty appreciated at such a time.

What happened was this. The Bishop who had been up for several nights cause of the barking dog and the worries on his mind for the Ward’s troubles couldn’t stand it no more. He lives just two houses down and what with all the people’s sins he carried in his heart with no way to let them out and that dog barking barking barking set his mind on fire. He could not tolerate it anymore and got up grabbed his grown up kid’s old bow and snuck out in his PJs and pegged the dog from up close.

Of course it wasn’t but two days later that Mullers got themselves a beagle puppy. And damn it wouldn’t you know but they set that thing outside and it whined and cried all night. It’s like the Mullers are stone deaf. But the Bishop having done it once did it again. On the third night they awoke to find dog number two shot through the eye with another target arrow.

Now the neighborhood was in an uproar. It was one thing for a bunch of wild teenagers to do something unbecoming one time random like but now people were kind of scared. Terrible rumors were arising about the last days.

The Mullers got themselves another puppy but this time they got a little terrier and kept it indoors. If you got close you could hear it whining inside the house but you had to get close so the Bishop didn’t kill this one. Without the Muller’s dog barking it was downright peaceful.

Except for Brother Wain’s old German shepherd lab mix. Now it was a little more sensible dog and didn’t really bark except when it suspected there was mischief about. Still it seemed like there was mischief about often enough. Especially on Fall nights when the wind blows out of the southwest. The skies are clear and it seems a little warmer than is proper for autumn. Something about all the trees knocking together and loose things people kept about their porches clanking and clicking would set that good dog to warning folks of the dangers it sensed riding in on the weather. We had quite of spell of this sort of thing and it seemed like that dog was sounding off four maybe five times a night for nearly a week. And the Bishop having given into temptation before succumbed again. But this time he didn’t use a bow.

Brother Wain told me he woke up to find his dog hardly able to catch its breath and dry heaving and choking. He tried to give it some water but then thinking something was really wrong drove it to the vet. It only survived about two hours. Brother Wain said the dog vet wasn’t there being on vacation and the cow vet didn’t really know what to do. He tried some things but they didn’t work and the dog died. When the cow vet opened the poor thing’s stomach he told Brother Wain that it was clear as water what happened. There was a chuck of hamburger and bacon all balled up around a center of D-con rat poison.

Now three dead dogs was too many and folks got serious. I myself would get up three or four times a night and peer out the windows to see what was afoot. I never saw anything. We took to letting our dog sleep in the utility-room .

On Sunday the bishop stood up and with a smile welcomed us all. You would never guess what he was about at night. He told us that these were troubled times. He told us that the last days were here and that we should expect trouble. He told us also that he had a feeling though from the Lord that things were settling down and that we ought not to worry. The Lord would protect us and our animals. This I must say brought a measure of peace to the whole Ward. I quit getting up at night and for all winter and most of the summer there was no trouble but of the usual kind.

By then the Mullers had kicked their terrier outside and them people who don’t hear their own dog barking did not notice their dog was again keeping people up all night. Then one night we heard a ruckus. A bad wounded dog is a frightful thing to hear and even a little terrier can make a hellacious noise such as to make your teeth bleed in sympathy. All the kids were out of bed crying and I looked out the window and every house in the neighborhood was lighting up. It was 4:34 am. I remember cause I looked at the clock. Then I seen him. Running low down. Bow in hand. White as a ghost. The Bishop stealing from bush to bush his big pot-belly and his bow legs making him easy to recognize. I threw on my pants and ran down stairs and made myself to the Mullers where a group of neighbors was gathered. I wasn’t alone in seeing the bishop. Brother Hassenbach saw him too.

The terrier had been gut shot. This time with a four-sided hunting arrow which the bishop had picked up special showing how premeditated this round of death dealing was. The arrow had not hit the heart or vitals and had just spilled the poor dog’s guts on the ground leaving his lungs free to mount the agony we had all heard. Brother Fisk put it out of its misery with a shot from his .357 Ruger Blackhawk.

Well the police came. Me and brother Hassenbach told what we saw and they arrested the Bishop. He confessed to the whole thing and was charged with misdemeanor animal cruelty him being friends with the judge and the prosecutor on account of his paint business. But the Stake released him from being bishop even though besides killing the dogs he had been mostly a fine bishop.

I’m the bishop now. I’ve got troubles keeping me up at night and the new mutt the Mullers have brought home is barking up a storm. I’m thinking about it.

I’m thinking about it.

About the Author: Steven L. Peck is a writer and an evolutionary ecologist at BYU. For science, he studies tsetse flies in Africa and the philosophy of computer simulation models. He blogs at BCC. His writing can be explored at stevenlpeck.weebly.com. He lives in Pleasant Grove, Utah.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.

Maurine slapped down onto the plush double bench across from a man in a well kempt but slightly old-fashioned suit. His face seemed to grow out from a pair of small round spectacles and a graying moustache. He did not seem to have noticed her as his eyes remained directed at his book. She set down her satchel and tried to peer over the top and see its title.

“It’s the new Twain.”

He hadn’t moved—even his lips had not seemed to move.

“I read that’s . . . an evil book.”

“I’ve read that myself.” The man looked up to gaze at Maurine. “What do you think?”

Maurine knew the proper answer, but she also knew the wrong answer. “I think I should like to read it for myself.”

“Ah. You are an Eve then.”

Maurine frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“I doubt that. What you’re not sure of is whether I mean it to be complimentary.” He waved a hand. “Or not.”

Maurine nodded.

The man waited, but to Maureen it still seemed his turn to speak. After a while his head began to incline toward his novel and she leaped in to fill the space.

“Is it good?”

He looked back up.

“I mean—do you like it.”?”

“Like it?” He closed the book on his finger and with his other hand brushed his moustache. “No, I don’t suppose I do. He was terribly angry before he died.”

“I’m not allowed to read his books. They say he hates the Mormons.”

“Say that they do. But you’ve read him anyway, of course.”

Maurine froze and thought of lying. But she could see he already knew. “Joan of Arc,” she whispered.

The man broke into a smile and he leaned towards her. “Did you? Did you really? I’ve long loved his books about boys, but I do think Joan is his greatest work. What did you think of it?”

” It—” Maurine bit her cheek to prevent a smile. “It was good.”

“You have more to say than that, I’m sure. It’s a terrific book, I agree, no matter what Shaw or other men of the world may say. I’m sure they don’t like us, so why should we agree with them on books. Of course, we were never more than fodder for the stage to Twain as well, I’m afraid. But come. Favorite character.”

He leaned back into his seat and regarded her.

Maurine had never been looked at by a man like this. He seemed to see only her eyes and her thoughts and nothing else.

“I like—I like Joan. That she knows who she is and who’s talked to her and that she never backs down.”

“And what is it about that aspect of Joan that appeals to you?”

“I could never be like that.” Maurine blushed. The words had sprung forth before she realized she was saying them. But since they were out . . . . “I mean—how does anyone really know like that? I guess someone like Joan or Joseph Smith. They see things, they hear things. I’ve never seen anything!”

The man nodded. “Yes. I know. Neither have I. Is that the only path to knowledge?”

“I—in my mind, I mean—I imagine that you don’t really get a testimony—not until you’re dying. And you’ve proved you need one. I mean—that’s how it will be for me. Other people have testimonies and say them all the time. They’re so sure.”

The man bent the page in his book and set it on the empty seat beside him. “That’s a serious question for anyone, no matter their age. But you must be, what, twenty?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen! And no chaperone on so long a trip?”

Maurine shrugged.

“I’m not judging you. It’s a sign of great trust, being on a train alone. Are you headed for Salt Lake City?”

“Yes.”

“As am I. As is everyone on the train, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“We’re all in it together!” He laughed and crossed his legs. ” What do you read for answers?”

“Answers?”

“To your questions. About testimonies and so forth.”

Maurine shrugged and slouched down a bit. “The scriptures.”

“No, no. I’m not asking for a right answer.” The man wagged a finger at her. “You are a student of books. What gives you answers? We’ve discussed Mark Twain. What else?”

Maurine fingered the fabric of her dress. Then, in one sudden movement, grabbed her red-dust-stained satchel from the under her legs and pulled out a ragged book. “Do you know this?”

Half his mouth smiled. “Indeed I do. Added Upon. And, if I’m not mistaken, not the latest edition. Forgive an old man’s opinion, but the final version is better than that one.”

“You’re not that old.”

He laughed, surprisingly loud and honest. “Old enough to be your father, methinks. But not too old, thank you. All the same. What do you think of this poor author’s attempt?”

“Well. All the girls I know have read it. I’ve started it many times. But I never make it to the end. To me, where the characters die, that’s the best part. I love how the book isn’t sad when they die. Or maybe love isn’t the word. I’m perplexed. Bothered. But I still love it. I wish I could believe like that so death wouldn’t hurt so much. Or be so scary.”

“Then why don’t you finish it?”

“I don’t know.”

“In the end the families are reunited and they are happy and so forth.”

“I know that. But I still can’t read it. I don’t know why not.”

“Guess.”

Maurine felt her throat get suddenly sore. Her voice came out as a rasp. “Maybe I don’t want answers.” She felt a tear grow in her right eye and hurriedly rubbed it away and took a deep breath. “I guess—I guess I’m still—I’m looking for questions. Better questions, maybe?”

The man sighed and looked at her with an emotion she couldn’t name. Almost sympathy but without any superiority attached. “The questions are important.” He paused to nod at her doubt. “They are.”

Maurine frowned at him. “But because we’re Mormon we have answers and so that’s what he had to write. At least, that’s what my mama tells me when I try to write.”

“You’re a writer.”

“Well.” Maurine was locked by his eyes. “Not really—”

“You are. I thought so.” The man leaned forward and took her hand. “I can always tell. And I try so hard—” He looked away from her out the window. A certain sadness was evident in his profile. “I don’t know quite what we’re doing.”

“Are you a writer?”

“Mm.” He gestured weakly at her novel and sat back again. “That’s me. Not my best work, but the one, as you say, that all the girls read. Too many answers? Perhaps. But that’s what it’s about. Answers. But questions come first. They always do, they always have.”

Maurine nodded excitedly. “Questions— Wait. You’re Nephi Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a real writer! I’ve never met a real writer before! How did you get to be a writer? How do you meet publishers? Are you rich? How do you—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m not rich. I’ll give you my address and we can correspond if you like. I certainly would. But I want to ask you—Thomas Hughes said his whole object in writing was to get the chance of preaching. Did you like his School Days?”

“Not so much.”

“How old were you when you read it?”

“Ten.”

“Didn’t like boys then, did you?”

Maurine laughed. “No.”

“His book—his preaching—all answers. And shouldn’t fiction provide answers that comfort and support?”

“But questions make you feel less alone.”

“How do you mean?”

Maurine paused to think, but finally admitted, “I’m not sure.”

“Too many questions and you may turn into the dying Twain. Angry.”

Maurine’s voice was small. “I don’t want to be angry.”

“No one does.” He smiled at her, his moustache rising. “And I’m sure you won’t be. Just promise. Promise you’ll never stop looking for answers. Then you can ask all the questions you like. Just keep hoping for answers.”

Maurine smiled. “I promise.”

He smiled again and made her shake on it. He rooted through his pockets for his card, stuck it in The Mysterious Stranger and handed her the book.

“No—”

“Yes. I can get another if I like. And your next question can be how the man who loved Joan so purely can write something like this.”

Maurine nodded and held the book to her chest. “It won’t happen to me.”

He looked at her again with that purer version of sympathy. “I know it won’t. I know it won’t.”

They sat in companionable silence, slight smiles remaining on their face as they commented on passing sights. After a while, Brother Anderson pulled out another book which gave Maurine the permission she craved to open The Mysterious Stranger:

It was in 1590—winter. Austria was far away from the world, and asleep; it was still the Middle Ages in Austria, and promised to remain so forever. Some even set it away back centuries upon centuries and said that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age of Belief in Austria. But they meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so taken, and we were all proud of it. I remember it well, although I was only a boy; and I remember, too, the pleasure it gave me.

About the Author: Theric Jepson is the proprietor of Peculiar Pages which has brought readers The Fob Bible, Monsters & Mormons, Out of the Mount: 19 from New Play Project, and Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets. He is currently working on a new edition of Nephi Anderson’s greatest novel, Dorian. A list of his own fiction and poetry is available at thmazing.com, but don’t miss his novel Byuck, coming later this year from Strange Violin Editions, about BYU students in that year from our mystical past, 2000.*

*Author information as of the publication of this story.